Home > Love May Fail(98)

Love May Fail(98)
Author: Matthew Quick

. . . you become exactly whomever you choose to be.

—I pull out my cell phone and hit the one button and it rings and rings and rings and fucking rings and then I’m hearing Kirk Avery’s voice message for the first time in my life because he’s never before failed to pick up when I’ve called him and it all seems like a sign that I should shoot the hit into my veins and I’m thinking I just might when my phone buzzes and it’s Portia and I hesitate but then pick up and she says, “Where the hell are you?” and so I tell her an abbreviated version of the truth, choking out the words, and she says she’s on her way and I push the plunger of the needle so that the hit sprays into the night air and when there is none left I stab a tree and break off the point and I dump the rest of the junk into a mud puddle and then I’m burying the remaining evidence and covering the freshly packed earth with leaves and I’m saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” as I run as fast as I can back to the Manor with the sound of police sirens wailing behind me.

I’m mentally reciting the Official Member of the Human Race card like the words to a prayer when Portia pulls up.

. . . ugliness and beauty, heartache and joy—

the great highs and lows of existence . . .

Tommy’s in the car, wearing his PJs under his winter coat.

“Why are you crying, Uncle Chuck?” he says from the backseat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” I say to him, and then to Portia, “I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Tommy says as Portia drives us home without saying anything at all.

I throw my clothes and coat into the laundry and immediately shower the sweat off me, making sure to get the dirt out from under my fingernails.

I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes look bad, guilty—like I know how fucked my behavior tonight was and believe I should be punished.

“Never again,” I say to my reflection. “Never again.”

Once she has Tommy back in bed, Portia makes tea and I tell her the extended version of everything that happened earlier in the evening, my voice shaking the whole time.

When I finish, I say, “Does my kicking Randall Street in the stomach make me a bad person? I’m supposed to be an elementary teacher at a Catholic school where we’re all about nonviolence. I have a picture of Mother Teresa hanging in my classroom. What’s happening to me?”

“You didn’t shoot up when you had a chance, and I’m proud of you for that,” Portia says, which makes me feel a little better, until she starts shaking her head and poking my chest hard with her index finger, tapping out the syllables of her words. “But you risked our future tonight, and I’m pissed as hell about that part. What if the cops find Randall dead? What about fingerprints? You could end up in jail! You think I want to bring Tommy to speak with his uncle through glass?”

The doorbell rings.

Portia and I look at each other. It’s almost two in the morning.

It rings again.

“This isn’t good,” Portia says.

I walk down the steps and find Officer Jon Rivers standing in front of our apartment.

“Can I come in?” he says.

“Is that necessary?”

“Afraid so.”

“Okay, then,” I say, and then follow him up the stairs.

“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Jon?” Portia says, acting for me. She’s transformed her face and now looks remarkably composed. “Can I fix you some tea?”

“No need,” Jon says. “I’ll get straight to the point. What follows is confidential. Between us only. Understood?”

We both nod.

Jon continues. “Just wanted to let you know that we arrested Randall Street tonight and took him to the hospital. We received a call from an old woman who reported a break-in across the street from her. When we investigated, we found the front door wide open, so we entered. The back door had been kicked in as well. Randall was incoherent and high on junk and pills and alcohol and what-have-you in a bedroom upstairs, so I don’t think he’ll be able to answer any of our questions with credibility. He was pretty beat up. Looked like someone stole his gear, because we found no needles. Bags of heroin were in clear view, so we searched the house and discovered quite a bit more. Off the record, it’s the most I’ve ever seen in one place. That’s a lot of heroin that won’t go into the arms of people like Danielle. The majority of it was behind the insulation in the attic—again off the record. The old lady across the street has been telling us that Randall was dealing for months, but we didn’t have anything strong to go on until tonight. A few people on the force suspected that you, Chuck, might have gone there looking for revenge. But I told them we were at the Manor together this evening. They talked to Lisa, who confirmed that, and said you stayed to chat with her for a few hours before Portia picked you up a little after midnight. I assume you’ve been here ever since. If you can confirm that, Portia, I’ll be on my way.”

“That’s what happened, Jon. Exactly,” Portia says. “Cross my heart.”

“Lisa said you had Tommy in the car with you,” Jon says to Portia. “Can the boy confirm the same story?”

“He was half asleep,” Portia says. “But yes.”

“Okay then. Randall was so high, I doubt he’ll remember anything. Given his connection to your sister’s overdose, I thought you’d like to know immediately what was going on,” Jon says and then squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe you’ll rest a little easier tonight. That’s the purpose of this visit. And to let you know the official story.”

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